Alarm Clock
by Eveilae
Summary: Mugen and Jin fight like they show affection. [ MuuFuuJin ]


_I do not own Samurai Champloo_.

Hah. This fic was caused by a wonderful overload of Samurai Champloo manga.

* * *

**Alarm Clocks  
**challenge: **I will show you fear in a handful of dust**

Fuu awoke to the sound of the swords clashing, making that loud jarring ringing that was cut off sharply by more of the same. It was becoming a bedside lullaby from hell, a wake-up call from her bodyguards. They were always at it, akin to the way Mugen was with food and Jin was with his glasses. Never ceasing.

She tried to desperately convince herself that the warmth had not yet been leeched from her limbs, that there was still heat enveloping her. There were downsides to being cute and smart, and one of them was that denial slid right off you like rain. What a _curse_ it was. Especially with Jin and Mugen after her at all hours, when they weren't trying to hit each other with the swords.

Still, it was a habit of hers to peek outside when they got like this. She wasn't going to _stop_ them, unless she wanted a nice little scar to match the one nicely adorning her arm from the _last_ time she'd tried that. This was when they were at their best, their bodies working, pushing themselves until they could go no further. Jin was sleek, like the fish that slipped past his thin fingers in the rivers. His movement precise and calculated, deadly. Everything was even with him, neat, organized, a well-oiled machine that never missed its target.

Mugen really _was_ Jin's complete opposite in all aspects. That was the real reason Jin's sword rarely cut Mugen's skin; his calculations were always thrown off by that reckless brunette. If _Mugen_ only had this half-assed idea of what he was doing, how could Jin be expected to be one step ahead?

Mugen. That twitching puppet, strings being pulled by something no one really could see. The wind, perhaps, that hapless god whose only task it was to tug at his limbs and push them down and around like deadly weapons. All spontaneous, chaos, an explosion of movements that blinded Fuu. He burnt your eyelids off if you stared too long.

Fuu was masochistic enough to stare long past what was necessary.

They fought like they showed affection. Jin was always careful with his touches. His lips would only touch her when he was sure what kind of reaction he would get. He only allowed their fingers to let down his hair when it might become a hindrance if they didn't, and would force it back into a mussed ponytail once they were done. He rarely took his shirt off during sex, but not because of urgency (that was Mugen's prerogative). Just because he wasn't comfortable with exposing himself like that, with shedding all shields and knocking down walls, even if they were as flimsy as his clothing.

His clothing _gave_ him certain things. They told people who they should assume he was, to presume that he was a samurai. If he took them off, they might be able to see who he really was.

He didn't realize Mugen and Fuu already knew. Damned if they _cared_.

Mugen was once more his opposite. With him, it was always sloppy and it always hurt. It wasn't because he was sadist, either. He seemed like the type who would be hungry for the pain of others, like the guy who would shove and shove, even as the cries to stop resonated in his ears. No. He knew his own limit, even if it was far beyond those of others.

No, they _let_ him hurt them with those teeth, his fingers, his dick. They reveled in it, more Fuu than Jin, actually. Fuu didn't know the kind of pain Jin and Mugen did. She didn't know metal ripping through muscle, cutting, sawing, eating away. She knew the kind of sadness that burnt holes right through your heart, your soul, the kind of wounds that healed only when you slept that endless sleep, maybe not even then. She wanted to understand what they had learnt long again.

She wanted to bleed, and Jin would never do that, she couldn't ask him to, not even tacitly. Mugen, though, he could understand that need to be accepted. He would shove at her, push her to her limits, until her moans were filled with as much pain as pleasure. Jin would only stand for it for a second before he shut her up with his own lips, cold fingers cooling that burning heat that Mugen's teeth left.

Fuu rarely saw Jin and Mugen actively having sex with each other. It wasn't that they were attracted to the other; they just had to let it out in other ways. Sometimes Fuu wondered that if they had sex with each other as they did with her, they'd kill themselves. They'd make it more about being on top and leaving marks than about that beautiful feeling that spread all the way down to the tingling toes. So they fought instead, tearing at each other with swords, and grinning like idiots as they did so. It left them more exhausted and cleansed than sex ever did, and that also made Fuu jealous.

They never seemed to share with her what they did with each other…

Jin's blade shot out, knocking Mugen's hand down like a punitive slap, and his grip loosened on the handle. Mugen's lithe frame sank down, reaching for that sword. Fuu could see that he wasn't going to reach it, he'd never make it before Jin's other blade did-

But that wasn't Mugen's plan. His fingers snatched up the dirt, and threw it up, where it exploded brutally in Jin's face. He coughed loudly, and blinked behind clouded glasses, confused. His plan had been ripped apart by a bit of dirt, and that was pretty much Mugen's philosophy. I'll show you fear in a handful of dust when you least expect it. Dust in the eyes, dick in the ass, what was the difference?

Mugen had his blade to Jin's pale white throat before the taller man could even get his glasses off to clean them. It was obvious who'd won this fight, even it he'd done it by bending the rules a bit. Then again, with the three of them, there was only one rule:

When it comes to dango, it's every (wo)man for themselves.

Fuu took this opportunity to nag at them, scrambling up from the mess of blankets she'd raveled herself up in. "Why can't you two stay asleep?" she yelled, kicking the last clinging blanket aside with a particularly vicious jerk. "Why the _hell_ do I always have to wake up to you two fighting? I _know_ I'm cute, but that doesn't mean the two of you have to _constantly_ go at it to try to prove to me how manly you guys are! The way I walk in the morning reinforces that manhood _pretty_ well, I'd think.

"AND DON'T GO SMIRKING LIKE THAT, IT'S NOT FUNNY."


End file.
